


Distractions

by MadameRed



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, PWP, bosmer db, magic as a stimulant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:22:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameRed/pseuds/MadameRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Firidal seduces his husband, Marcurio, who happily complies to prevent himself from being Shouted off the bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> Mindless porn with everyone's favourite sassy mage and a wood elf.

“Marcurio.” His voice was quiet and lacking his usual undertone of sarcasm. Marcurio looked up at his husband from the spell book he was reading, his dark eyebrows quirked. The corner of Firidal’s lips twitched upward just slightly, and the mage snapped the book shut in response. He stood from the chair he’d been occupying and swaggered over to the bed. The bosmer set aside the Nightingale bow he’d been restringing and scooted over, giving his husband equal room. Marcurio looked down at the bow.

“That’s the third time this month you’ve restrung that thing,” he observed, his voice holding the barest hint of distaste at the weapon. Firidal shrugged.

“That job in the Reach got ugly. The Forsworn nearly ripped me to pieces,” he defended. Marcurio snorted.

“You were nowhere near getting ripped apart. I distracted them while you picked them off. If anything, my life was in danger,” he sniffed. “And the tip you followed was wrong to boot. There wasn’t more than thirty septims in the place.” Firidal crossed his arms.

“That’s thirty septims that paid for the big room at the Moorside Inn in Morthal,” the elf pointed out. Marcurio smirked at the mention of the inn.

“True enough. Thirty septims well spent,” he mused. He shifted his body to face the bosmer, his hazel eyes glinting in the low light of Honeyside. “Now what is it that you wanted so badly that you felt the need to interrupt my studies?” Firidal rolled his eyes.

“Studies my brown bottom. You know as well as I do that you spend more time eating than you do studying,” he accused. 

“I’ll have you know that spell casting requires an extraordinary amount of energy. You wouldn’t know that, archer.” The Imperial shifted toward him another half a fraction.

“I seem to recall a certain Healing Hands spell that saved your scrawny arse more than once,” the elf said.

“Hmph.” This was the noise of resignation that the mage was infamous for. This was the noise he made when he knew he Firidal had a point. The bosmer put his right hand, his bowstring calloused hand, around Marcurio’s hip and dragged the mage close to him, pressing their bodies together. His handsome face split into a grin, a grin that was rapidly becoming a common sight on his face. Firidal smiled back at him, always thrilled when his actions caused such a phenomenon on the handsome Imperial’s face. 

“So your motives are revealed,” Marcurio said. 

“Passion is always my motive,” Firidal told him. He leaned in and placed his lips firmly over Marcurio’s, holding their bodies together. His hand moved up the mage’s back, resting between his shoulder blades. Marcurio sighed into the kiss, hunching his shoulders and threading his fingers into his lover’s long black hair. Iona was at Mistveil Keep yet, the Jarl having requested her presence for a few days. Marcurio showed his appreciation at this happy event by slipping his tongue into Firidal’s mouth and caressing the elf’s soft, sensitive palate.

Firidal made a purring noise, like a contented cat, a noise that Marcurio had long ago discovered that he adored. He rolled over so that he was lying atop the small elf and began tugging at the old green tunic that he refused to throw away. He loosened the belt and wriggled his long-fingered hands beneath it to tease at his lover’s soft brown skin. Firidal gasped slightly, arching upward, silently begging Marcurio to touch him more firmly. The mage acquiesced, pressing his palm flat into the elf’s abdomen. Firidal hummed appreciatively, kissing his lover once more. This time it was a sloppy kiss, indicative of their growing fervour.

Marcurio smirked against his lips and curled the hand that was resting on the elf’s stomach into a ball, then flattened it again. Firidal cried out as an almost-too-hot heat emanated from the mage’s fingertips. Marcurio slowly dragged his fingers up Firidal’s chest to tease at his small, sensitive nipples. Firidal’s mouth hung open, gasping as his pleasure receptors shot lightning through his entire body. Marcurio contentedly nipped at the elf’s swollen lips, his free hand tangled with one of Firidal’s next to the pillow. 

The mage continued his fiery ministrations for what seemed like long, agonizing hours. Firidal made an incredibly feminine noise, one not befitting the leader of the Thieves Guild (which was now an empire unto itself) or the Dragonborn, writhing beneath the Imperial man in a desperate attempt to escape those wicked fingers and feel so much more of them. And then Marcurio called forth a different spell, and Firidal’s overly sensitive skin jolted at the sudden contact of ice. The elf bit his lip and moaned loudly, his hips bucking up against Marcurio’s groin. The mage smirked and withdrew his hand after long moments of teasing and pinching and pushed the green tunic up, tugging it off of his lover’s body and tossing it to the floor. He drug his short nails down Firidal’s brown chest, just hard enough to leave little pink lines. 

Firidal hissed, arching from the bed, his hands fisting in the blankets. Marcurio leaned down and set his tongue at the end of one of the lines, near the waistband of his trousers, and dragged it upward. Slowly, torturously. He would deviate from the path of the scratches to trace little circles around outlines of slender muscle, only to return to lave at the marks a moment later. The mage called upon the heat once more and dipped a hot finger into Firidal’s navel. A fierce bolt of pleasure caterwauled down the elf’s sides and he bucked his hips upward, jostling Marcurio. The Imperial chuckled and moved down to pull at the ties of his lover’s trousers with his teeth. He curled his fingers around the waistband and pulled them down, slowly revealing the elf’s swollen cock. 

He discarded the worn and faded trousers with less care than he had the tunic. He let his hot breath ghost over his lover’s throbbing member as he kneaded his thighs. Marcurio pushed the tan legs apart to kneel between them. He lifted one slender leg, wrapping long fingers around his ankle and placing a kiss at the joint. Firidal used his other leg to wrap around Marcurio’s waist, pulling him down for another fierce kiss. This action trapped the elf’s member between them, and the mage made sure to grind his pelvis against it. Firidal’s hand twisted almost painfully into his hair and he nipped at his lips. Marcurio ran his hand from the archer’s ankle and up the underside of his leg to cup one of his cheeks. 

Firidal lifted his hips, silently urging the mage to touch and probe further. Marcurio obliged, wrapping his hand firmly around the elf’s aching cock. Firidal sucked his lower lip into his mouth and whimpered, arching off the bed and trying very hard not to thrust too wildly. Marcurio applied the slightest bit of heat to the tan prick in his hand, and the elf cried out loudly. The Imperial smirked and lowered his lips to it, sucking the head into his mouth with a vulgar noise that would have made him cringe a year ago. He enjoyed it now, moaning slightly as he began to bob his head. Firidal resisted the urge to thrust into his mouth, but only barely. His hips bucked slightly, but Marcurio took it in stride, hollowing his cheeks and taking the elf’s length in like a professional. He licked all the way down to the base of his lover’s cock, massaging every bit of the shaft that he could reach with his tongue.

The Imperial’s left hand, which had been massaging the wood elf’s lithe hip, drifted across his quivering thigh to tickle his balls. His touch was light enough that it was almost not touching, but Firidal felt it. His every nerve ending was exposed and raw, and he let Marcurio know. He whined loudly and arched off the bed. He hooked one of his feet behind the Imperial’s leg and jostled him, forcing him to release the elf’s cock with a loud, wet pop. Firidal grabbed at Marcurio’s shoulders and heaved him upwards, crushing their lips together almost violently. Their bodies moulded to one another perfectly, sliding slightly from the thin sheen of sweat that coated each of them. 

“Come on,” Firidal whispered, his voice drastically different from the noises he’d been filling the room with. It was guttural and filled with grit, desperate. It was deep and not like the feminine noises he’d been favouring.  Marcurio smirked, threading his hands into Firidal’s black hair and kissing him again, trying to pour all of his passion out into that kiss. After a long moment, he disentangled one of his hands and pawed around in the bedside table drawer for a chipped little vial of oil. Firidal, who was a successful alchemist, had brewed up a special lubricant for their personal use. Given his know-how of ingredients, it was a fabulous little mix.

Marcurio pulled the cork out with his teeth and spit it onto the floor, pouring the little bit left into his hand and tossing the vial aside. He stroked his own painfully erect shaft, painting it with lube. He then lowered his slick fingers to his lover’s entrance, teasing at the tight ring of muscle that guarded his entrance. Firidal moaned and pushed down, taking the Imperial’s slim finger into him, up to the knuckle, easily. The bosmer bit his lip and grinned like a cat, wriggling his hips. His dark cock gave an excited twitch as Marcurio twisted his finger and added a second and third at once. The elf’s hips rose off the bed a little gyrating against nothing, begging for any sort of hot friction. Ignoring the weeping cock in front of him, Marcurio pressed his fingers deeper into Firidal, scissoring them and curling, pressing against his slick inner walls. The bosmer mewled loudly, driving his hips down, wishing that the Imperial would just find and pet that bundle of nerves deep within him. 

Marcurio brushed against his prostate - he knew because Firidal’s breath hitched in his throat and gooseflesh rose across his body. He grinned wickedly and withdrew his fingers then, earning a furious snarl from his smaller lover. The Imperial hefted his own girth in his hands and pressed it against the elf’s entrance. Waiting too long to fill him up would result in him being Shouted across the room again. Marcurio leaned down and rested his forehead against Firidal’s and slowly pushed into him. The bosmer’s blue eyes fell shut and he licked his lower lip, sighing softly. And Marcurio smiled, because that face was the one he shot for every night in bed. He dipped his head to press against the side of Firidal’s face, closing his own hazel eyes and pressing his lips against soft brown skin.

He grasped at Firidal’s neck, his fingers resting at the back of the elf’s neck. His thumb came around and settled under his chin and he gently tilted his head back, kissing at the smooth column of his neck. As the Imperial licked a straight line from Firidal’s collar bone to his lips, he pulled out and thrust back in, burying himself to the hilt.

The noises that Firidal had been making up to this point were nothing like the noise that erupted from his throat then. Marcurio struck his prostate and the bosmer groaned loudly, deep in his throat. The Imperial smirked and nipped at the elf’s neck, then rolled his hips again, and again, and again. He built a fast pace for them: The noises Firidal was making was the mortar and the way he brought his hips up to meet every thrust Marcurio could dish out was the brick. 

Their bodies were hot and covered in sweat, and Firidal’s abdominal muscles were straining to keep up with the ever increasing pace that Marcurio had set. The mage gripped at Firidal’s thigh and hitched the elf’s slender leg up onto his shoulder. He pressed in deeper, striking his well-abused prostate with each thrust. 

Firidal fell over the precipice first, clawing at Marcurio’s back and whispering his name into his ear, whimpering as he rode out his orgasm by bearing down furiously onto his lover’s cock. Quivers of pleasure wracked his body, and he could feel his skin twitch like a horse’s. Within a moment, Marcurio reached his climax. He exhaled loudly through his nose, his entire body freezing but for the halting, shallow thrusts of his hips as his orgasm rolled out of him. 

They clung to each other for several moments after their completion. Marcurio rested his forehead upon Firidal’s once more, breathing heavily and dropping kisses onto his nose. Marcurio rolled off of his lover and the lithe wood elf immediately curled to his side, wrapping arms and legs around him. The mage tucked Firidal’s head beneath his chin and pulled the blankets up over them to fend off the late autumn chill. The Imperial traced invisible little whorls and runes over Firidal’s shoulder, which caused gooseflesh to break out over the skin. 

“This was the only reason you called me away from my book, wasn’t it?” the mage asked wryly. Firidal shrugged, wrapping his limbs tighter.

“I was feeling frisky. It was either knock boots with you or raid Maven’s house again, and you get whiney if I leave you alone on cloudy nights,” he said. Marcurio snorted.

“Knowing you, you’ll let a dragon fall out of the clouds onto your head, because you’re too preoccupied picking up dented cups to sell to Mallus,” he contested. “So I have to be at least somewhat concerned about your safety.”

“Those dented cups are getting us that much closer to buying Proudspire. Which, may I remind you, has a full bedroom with a door,” Firidal said, emphasizing the importance of the door. Marcurio smirked then, trailing his hand down his lover’s back. Maybe he would rethink the importance of dented cups and stale Alto Wine.


End file.
